And if it’s not them it’s these bleedin’ Sandwich Bars: £2 for a roll that’s full of rabbit food! A fat bird behind the counter with peroxide hair and tacky gold chains dangling from her neck as she serves you is obligatory. She will always squeeze your slices as she puts them into the bag, just to ensure a bit of mayonnaise squirts out onto her finger, so the gluttonous cow can wop her index finger into her mouth like a dart hitting a bullseye. The sandwiches will be filled with salad, as she’s scoffed most of the meat whilst slicing it up earlier; the “Oohh... just a little slither of this beef won’t ruin my diet” scenario is repeated a hundred times, effectively culling a herd of cattle in a morning and leaving nothing but gristle for the punters’ baps.

Youth are now often oblivious to what a good old ‘George Best and Rosey’ is (Bacon, Egg, Sausage, Tomato and Tea). The Great British Breakfast in Full Monty is what our heritage and stomachs demand. Bacon, egg, sausage, beans, mushrooms, black pudding, fried slice with two of toast and a mug of tea, all floating in a sea of grease. (For foreign readers: black pudding is a recipe of pig’s blood, sheep’s brains and goat’s bollocks, with a dash of eye of newt and wing of bat, all rolled into a burger-type format. It is absolutely vile, but everyone pretends they love it for some odd reason.)

Seated in a Great British Traditional Working Man’s Cafe will always be an old man with a Sainsbury’s carrier bag, an electrician whose big mouth everyone wants to thump and, most importantly of all, where else but in the cafe will you find telecom, gas or council workers? If you had an emergency, rain or shine, eight hours a day, you will find them there.

Thus, we are not only gradually losing our heathen diet, but also a secure community meeting place. We must defend and save what few essentially British things we have left.

During the Middle Ages much of Europe’s population lived in fear of the Spanish Inquisition. The dread knock at the door by gentlemen in dark robes followed by being ‘put to the question.’

Nowadays only those who have not read the newspapers for several hundred years live in fear of the Spanish Inquisition. But a new threat even more terrible is abroad.

What person of Nationalist persuasion has not woken sweating in the night. ‘Will they come for me’ you think. ‘Will I be asked the dreaded question by a passing journalist’ you wonder. All over Britain staunch Nationalists are being put to the question they fear most and know not how to answer: ‘Have you ever had a curry?’

This article is here to help those of a nervous disposition by – as they say in certain circles – ‘any means necessary.’ Set your minds at rest. You no longer have to hide your secret: I ate a curry, how can I be an honest Nationalist?

Perhaps the best way to tackle the question is by ‘MacDonaldising’ it. Many black people like MacDonalds hamburgers. Does that mean that every black person has to want their country full of Americans? Of course not! The two things are entirely separate. What journalist would dare put the MacDonalds question to a black person? Unless of course they wanted to lose their job!

Let’s try another example. Britain’s great houses are full of Chinese crockery. It was all the rage during the 17th century. Does that mean that the purchasers were required to allow the population of China to follow the crockery into their houses, or even into Britain? Of course not.

That should be enough on The Great Curry Question to be going along with.